I went to an art show yesterday, at the behest of SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed).  For the record, I would never willingly go to an art show, because, well, you  know, artists are, well, different.   It was a pleasant enough experience, once we navigated to a decrepit old warehouse in a forbidden part of town where the prudent gentlemen carry large-caliber firearms just in case.  There, we mingled with the casually-dressed cognoscenti in a space where dozens of visual artworks were displayed.  Wine, cheese, crackers, and crab dip were available for donations to the cause.  Sadly, due to a line of storms that passed through Richmond as the show began, all but emergency lighting was out.  We mingled amongst the patrons with the fading light of day piercing the dirty skylights of the warehouse, bathing the colorful art in a grey hue of blandness.

As the awards for the show were announced, we found our artist friend at his displayed photograph taken in Cuba.  He was dressed in a pair of Birkenstock sandals, over black socks splashed with stripes of color, black pants, black shirt, a grey blouse jacket, and a multicolor scarf knotted around his neck.  His shining silver hair and beard were eclipsed by the smile on his face, as he explained the art behind his work to the passerby.  He had been to Cuba with a group, and his photograph differed markedly from others displayed on a nearby wall.  His image included a building and sidewalk, nothing noteworthy by itself, enhanced with a dreamy ocean background that covered the entire frame.  It was a double image, taken in camera, while there in Cuba, somehow.  Most people would do such work in an image editing software, but he had seen the picture in his mind and captured it real time.  Art.

As the evening light faded, we wandered around the space, looking at all the images there.  Some were very realistic, while others were a challenge to understand.  There was three-dimensional art, as sculpture, diorama, or…I don’t know what…a wall hanging collection with a fan propellor, a wire mesh basket filled with smooth river stones, a piece of driftwood, all mounted on a wooden carved S shape.  There were many paintings with wax as an element, adding some texture to the swaths of color.  There were several paintings of faces, some absolute, some abstract, and some anguished. One piece was of a face, made of colored glass beads, each about the size of a caraway seed.  Seeing the blazing light of my phone which illuminated the colorful beads, the artist excitedly came over to share her joy at being displayed at such a show.  Her smile was brighter than a kid’s on Christmas morning.

Looking at the art, then reading the statement, then looking back at the art, one could wonder if they all said the same thing.  To me, each statement and artwork spoke of one force, that of creation, bubbling up and exploding in a frenzy of activity finally captured in the objet d’art.  Each piece seemed to carry with it a passion for expression of emotion, of joy in the ability to create.  Each offered to the viewers a window on a soul that wanders the earth marveling at or mourning what the artist observes.  And each piece showed that this life of wonderment and expression would never stop.

I want to be an artist.